


The Cock, The Pussy, The Bitch and The Jackass (Or the Bremen Town Musicians)

by miriad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-07
Updated: 2007-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriad/pseuds/miriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sam, I don’t want to hear it.” Dean fumbles for the shotgun again and Sam swats at the barrel with one paw, enough force to send it sliding away towards the wall. Dean makes some weird chicken noise, Sam hisses a bit, his tail puffing up like a bottle brush and then it all comes screeching to a halt when the very large (and attached to a very angry Bobby) hoof slams down between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cock, The Pussy, The Bitch and The Jackass (Or the Bremen Town Musicians)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for undermistletoe 2007

“This sucks.” Dean fumbles with the shotgun but can’t keep a firm grip, the cool metal sliding through the feathers on his wings. It hits the floor with a thunk and Dean grimaces- well, as best he can, what with the beak and all- glad that the stupid thing hadn’t fired. Sam, licking himself in places that Dean just doesn’t want to think about, looks up and narrows his (now quite literally) cat eyes.

“Dean, you can’t use a gun right now. I mean, come on!” Sam moves with a grace that he never really had as a person, all liquid and smooth. He’s gray with white feet, small ears and a short tail. A mouser, Bobby had said, good at catching and killing things. Typical.

“A guy can try, can’t he?”

“Not with feathers and without, you know, opposable thumbs!”

“Sam, I don’t want to hear it.” Dean fumbles for the shotgun again and Sam swats at the barrel with one paw, enough force to send it sliding away towards the wall. Dean makes some weird chicken noise, Sam hisses a bit, his tail puffing up like a bottle brush and then it all comes screeching to a halt when the very large (and attached to a very angry Bobby) hoof slams down between them.

“Would you boys keep it down! You’ll draw more attention than we really want right now!” Bobby is a very large, very wide donkey and he is not, based on the various uncomfortable noises he keeps making, very happy about it. Dean had tried to laugh it off in the beginning, until he had seen his own reflection.

“Sorry, Bobby.” His voice sound weird and not at all what Dean assumed a chicken would sound like.

“Yeah, sorry Bobby.” Sam, however, sounds exactly like Dean assumed a cat would sound like. Snotty and know-it-all.

“Ellen’ll be back soon and we’ll have a better… plan.” Bobby snorts, loud and low, then stomps back to the corner of the room and rubs his side along the wood paneling.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever. ” Dean goes back to his shotgun. He looks, Sam thinks, ridiculous, although he would never say that out loud. Not when Dean is still angry that he ended up the rooster and Ellen ended up a dog. A very, very big dog with very large teeth.

Filled with an incurable desire to smell everything, Sam makes his way around the room, rubbing his face on everything, and away from his brother, despite how tasty and good he smells. Sam has decided against mentioning that, as Dean has already expressed some issues with the current state of affairs. Knowing that Sam would like to dig in and eat him would make him even less… happy.

The room reeks, to put it mildly. Sam can smell Dean as rooster and Bobby as donkey, as well as the lingering affects of Ellen as dog but there’s something that runs under everything. It’s not supernatural, that he can tell. No, it has to do with the meth lab they discovered in the basement and the guys they had run off when they first arrived.

It had started as a rumor in a small town a few hours south of Bobby’s. He’d heard stories and Ellen had called him, hearing the same thing. Knowing what they did about the door to hell opening and all the demons that had gotten out, they called the Winchesters. Missing kids, stories of demons with glowing eyes and dead live stock made it something that Sam and Dean couldn’t just ignore.

But it hadn’t been what they thought, not even close, and a botched spell that had turned on them had made life a little bit more interesting. They’d run off the completely human idiots making drugs and had been hit with a spell that had taken a twist. Dean’s opinion? All the damn fairy tale research they’d done earlier in the year.

“The Bremen Town Musicians? What the hell, Sam? I mean, seriously?” Dean is still trying for the gun because if there is one thing about Dean that hasn’t changed, it’s his tenacity, especially regarding hunting.

“I said I was sorry! Will you just let it go already?”

“I could let it go if I could pick it up!”

“Boys!”

The curse they’d accidentally put on themselves- well, let’s be honest, that Sam had put on them with a twist of the tongue and bit of incorrect Latin (to be fair, due to poor penmanship of the original writer of the ancient text, not Sam’s accent or understanding)- had a time limit. It was a spell they had found that was supposed to allow the caster to stop anything in its tracks, demons included, for twenty four hours. It sounded dangerous and Bobby had warned them that it could backfire. But the Winchester brothers had felt the end result would be worth the risk.

Bobby and Sam had broken down the Latin- what Sam had actually said, as opposed to what he was supposed to say- and while they had been transformed into, well, animals (and wasn’t that just perfect?), the time limit they had been counting on was apparently still intact. Supposedly.

They had one whole day to sit around a meth lab, which Dean insisted on calling “The Crack House” despite the distinct lack of crack, and wait for the owners of said meth to come back.

The clicking of doggy nails on the wooden front porch brings everyone to attention. Ellen slides through the open front door with a plastic bag in her teeth, full of various food items that she must have stolen from a dumpster behind the local grocery store. They stink of the beginning of rot and Sam wrinkles his nose but doesn’t say anything. He hadn’t been the one to volunteer to go for food and he certainly hadn’t been the one to actually dumpster dive for it.

Ellen drops the bag and begins sorting with her nose, pushing the remains of a head of lettuce, a few apples and some half eaten carrots towards Bobby, a sandwich that may have been tuna at one time towards Sam and a bag of corn chips towards Dean, who cocks his head and clucks. Actually clucks. Sam, who can’t seem to help himself, falls over and laughs.

“Chips? Ellen, what the hell-“

“They didn’t exactly have bags of chicken feed sitting in the dumpster and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I couldn’t exactly go in and ask. Just eat your damn chips and shut up about it.”

Dean grumbles the whole time, Sam still laughing on the floor, trying to put off his attempt to eat the nasty sandwich. Bobby, slow and steady, eats his vegetables off the floor and gives Ellen a thankful nod. Ellen conspicuously has nothing to eat but keeps licking her muzzle and her feet. Sam can smell a whiff of what his cat brain is decoding as rabbit on her and he suddenly knows why it took so long. Ellen was out hunting. She glances at him and he just stares until she bares her teeth, almost a smile if he believed dogs could smile.

“Better eat, Sam. Wouldn’t want it to go bad.” Dean laughs now, having opened the corn chips bag with the talons on his feet, and pecks at the chips. He’s making a hell of a mess and he knows it but he’s been presented with an opportunity where he has no chance of eating neatly or cleanly and he plans on reveling in it.

The merriment ends when the rumble of a truck echoes through the woods. Headlights cut through the foggy gloom.

“Shit.” Dean leaves his chips and heads for the gun, even knowing that he can’t pick it up. “Sammy! We need to fix this!”

“How Dean? We’ve been through this already! We’re stuck, for at least a day!” The headlights are still on and there hasn’t been the sound of a door shutting or anyone exiting the vehicle. They’re waiting, Sam thinks, scared, maybe. And then Sam thinks about it, thinks about what he’s apparently done to them, even if it’s only for a day. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

David is not known for being the smartest guy in the world. He has bad taste in friends, bad taste in career choices and just in general, bad taste. He is also bad at rock, paper, scissors and had “won” the chance to be the first back into the house to check on their setup. He doesn’t want to go in but wants to risk getting on the bad side of his so-called friends even less, so he makes the best of a bad situation and gets out of the car.

The lights aren’t on in the house. He can’t remember if they had turned them off or if they’d been on when the four of them had run out screaming earlier that day. But it doesn’t matter, he has his flashlight. The anemic beam doesn’t light up much but it keeps him from tripping on tree roots and broken beer bottles that litter the front yard. He makes a mental note to make someone else clean that up. Later.

He takes the steps to the porch one at a time and pauses at the door, not quite ready to open it. With a deep breath, he turns the knob and pushes. The door swings on rusty hinges, stopping halfway through its path. He takes a step into the house, and his feet crunch on something. David looks down and sees chips all over. He doesn’t remember chips but hey, there are a lot of things that he doesn’t remember in this house. He’s not worried.

He reaches in for the light switch and flicks it up. Nothing. He boggles the switch- up and down, up and down- and still nothing. He swallows, more like a gulp, and steps into the dark room. He raises the flashlight and it catches on something. Something that shines and glimmers in the dim beam. He steps further into the room and the glittering thing moves, jumping at him.

It all happens at once. The claws of some monster strike out and cut into his face, a hissing growl accompanying them. As he reaches for his cheek, feeling the blood already starting to flow, a giant fist slams into his skull. After that, things get a bit confusing, what with his head ringing and his eyeballs vibrating in their sockets but he feels the bite in his leg distinctly, then in his ass.

Falling backwards more than actually turning, David drops the flashlight and heads for the door, all the while being chased by something screaming at him in this awful voice. It sounds like what David has always thought the devil would sound like. He rubs at his bleeding face and gets blood in his eye but he doesn’t care. He feels claws on the back of his necks, feels them tear into him, teeth biting at his other leg, at his foot.

With a scream, he bursts out of the door and falls down the porch steps, twisting his ankle. Practically dragging himself back to the car, he starts screaming to his buddies, dripping blood the whole way.

They peel out in a cloud of dust and yard trash and they don’t look back.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sam licks at his claws, trying to clean the awful taste of druggie from them but it seems to be lingering longer than it should. Dean warns him of possible meth addiction just from the guy’s blood but Sam would rather risk it them smell that for the rest of his time as a cat.

Dean is strutting around, quite literally. Seems he can’t get enough of his own performance. Sam rolls his eyes and keeps on licking.

Bobby is asleep, leaning against the wall. His bad knees translated over to his donkey form and he doesn’t want to risk lying down and not being able to get back up, especially if the idiots come back. That kick of his had landed beautifully but had reverberated up Bobby’s leg and is giving him grief. Sam hopes that it doesn’t last once they are changed back.

Ellen is also asleep, curled up on the crappy couch, grumbling about men and idiots and to not wake her up unless it involved her back in human form. She yawns, her teeth flashing in the dim light from the window.

Sam is pretty sure that come this time tomorrow, they’ll all be back to normal, however normal that is. But if not, well, he’s always been able to make the most out of a bad situation and Dean doesn’t smell that tasty… yet. He curls up next to Ellen and ignores all the clucking. Dean’ll run out of steam fairly soon and Sam’s always been good at tuning him out. And with that thought, he’s out like a light.


End file.
